“I’m kinda pissed at you, you know.” Grumbled clear as day as I’m in the shower. So clear, I nearly move aside the curtain to see if he’s there, actually angry at me about something. But this isn’t an 80’s movie and he couldn’t possibly be there, so I didn’t. But he is. There, that is.

“Excuse me, what now?” my only reply as I try to come to grips that this conversation is happening in my head, and heart, and soul – not in a bathroom filling with steam.

“I’m kinda pissed at you.”, he repeats. “You have a gift, you know.” and he leaves me hanging, as if that’s enough for me.

“Okay, what the hell are you talking about, Schmoop?” I ask, using my name for him to soften him up because, pissed off, remember?

“You turn tales about masturbation and workouts into stream-of-conscious poetry. And, I’m a little pissed that you never shared that with me. That I’m finding out now that you have a goddamned gift and not only hid it from me, but the rest of the world too.”

I laugh through eyes welling up because I get now that his grumble comes from a place of love. Always did.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t have an explanation for why I kept that part of me locked in my own head all that time.” ”What can I do to fix it?” Am I trying to soothe him or myself? And does it matter?

“You can promise me that you’ll keep posting. Even if you think it’s not good enough. Fuck good enough. Your best was always better than most.”

Now I don’t know whether he’s still talking about writing, but I say, “I can promise to try, how’s that?”

“Okay. Good enough for me.” Plain, simple, straight forward; like the matter was settled before it was raised. Maybe it was?

“Thanks, Schmoop. And hey,.. ” trying to catch him as if he’s going to leave through the bathroom door. “You weren’t really mad at me, were you?” I ask.

“No, Booty. I could never really be mad at you. You know that.” And I do know that.

So I let him go for now and as I do, warm tears join the shower spray as my body is wracked with the physicality of weeping standing on my own two feet.

“And hey..” he says, still there somehow. “It’s okay to write about this too, so do it. Then go make yourself a big ol’ breakfast.”

I love you, too.